


asian glow

by sevenzeroseven



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8027857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenzeroseven/pseuds/sevenzeroseven
Summary: "You're blushing.""I-I'm not," he hurriedly denies, and he doesn't have to look up to know the bastard is smirking. "It's—It's Asian glow, jackass.""It's cute."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi i just finished zen's route and i'm obsessed im in juminzen hell someone save me. also i have no idea what i'm doing, but i wanted to do something so i wrote this thing lol. drunk!zen pls.

It's Jumin's phone that wakes him up.

"Ugh." Zen's knee-jerk reaction is to slam a hand across the table to silence it. Nothing happens. The ringtone continues, each high-pitched note drilling itself into his brain like a jackhammer. It takes him until the little electronic tune is over to notice that something's... not quite right. He realizes with a jolt that the chair he's sitting in isn't his chair, and the marble dining table he's slumped over _definitely_ isn't his dining table. He snaps up just as a violent sneeze trembles through him. "Achew!"

Something simultaneously rubs up against his calf, and a shiver ricochets down his spine. He jumps out of his seat in such a rush that he nearly misses Elizabeth 3rd's yowl as the chair clips her tail.

"A-Achew!" _That jerk_ , he thinks, and speak of the devil—

"What are you doing."

Jumin appears at the hallway entrance, arms crossed, but Zen misses the look on his face. He shouldn't have stood up so quickly. The room swims across his vision, a blur of white darting away in the periphery, and just as he's about to fall, a warm, solid surface catches him. He hiccups pathetically, hopelessly confused why he's at _Jumin's_ penthouse of all places. Before he can ask, he hears the other's voice somewhere above him. He misses the exact words, but the tenor is softer than it usually is. For some reason, that pisses him off.

His thoughts jerk, and he remembers. The lost role, Jumin antagonizing him in the chat room, his impulsive trip over with the full intention of giving that freaking trust fund kid a piece of his mind. Except "a piece of his mind" had turned into boozing had turned into Jumin shaking him by the shoulder and muttering something about beer breath.

His thoughts jerk again. _Too close_ , he thinks and shoves Jumin out of his space. He instinctively raises a wrist to his mouth as if he can hide the flush across his cheeks. Alcohol-induced, of course. _God_ , why does trust fund kid have to be such a heavyweight? He'd thought drinking would lighten his mood, but he's even more sour now. He feels like he lost something by being such a mess when Jumin is still as composed as ever. And on top of that, his allergy is acting up. He feels the telltale signs already, runny nose and itchy eyes.

"Achew!" Ah, damn it. Drunk and sneezy. He should have known nothing good would come out of visiting Jumin.

"What?" he asks when he belatedly realizes that Jumin is talking. He tries to find support on the nearest piece of furniture that isn't moving, but in the next moment he's toppling back into Jumin with a growl.

"Jerk," he hisses. "Said you—you'd keep her in the—the room." His words slur together. It's probably not the answer to whatever Jumin is asking, but eh. "I'm—going home," he adds and tries to push off the man a second time.

"Home?"

Jumin raises an eyebrow skeptically, probably mockingly, but Zen's too miserable to bring himself to care. He makes another attempt at separating but can't.

"You're going to go home like this?"

"Yeah," Zen mumbles. "I'm fine."

"Hardly. You can't even stand on your own."

Is that concern he hears? No, he's probably overthinking it. He's the last person Jumin would be concerned about. But the way Jumin is holding onto him and blocking his way to the door—he's probably just trying to annoy him, right? Some part of him knows Jumin's not wrong. He's shit-faced and in no condition to ride a motorcycle, but he can't help it. That guy just makes him want to be difficult on purpose.

"So, what?" Zen makes another valiant effort, and Jumin finally lets go. Zen totters back a few steps and gets a good look at the other. His tie is slack around his neck, and his vest has a few buttons undone. His dark hair is a little looser than it normally is, a little messier. Zen can make out the stain on the sleeve of his shirt where he spilled a bit of wine earlier. It's almost... disorienting to see him like this. Zen averts his gaze from Jumin's intense stare, ignores the warm thrill through his veins, and tries to collect his thoughts into coherent sentences. "Don't you—don't you have a round the clock driver?" He waves a hand casually in front of his face. "J-Just tell him to send me home."

"At this hour? Do you know what time it is?"

"Since w-when do you care about overworking your employees? Jaehee—a-achew!"

The force of the sneeze almost has him falling onto his ass. Jumin's steadying hand saves him, but he quickly shakes him off. " _God_ , I can't stay here anyway with that—that damn cat..."

"Elizabeth 3rd is nothing less than a treasure."

Zen shakes his head. He doesn't want to rehash this argument again. He's not in the right mood or frame of mind. He takes an unsteady step forward, smiles triumphantly when nothing happens, then proceeds to trip over his feet. This must be the nth time Jumin has caught him.

"Damn it..." he mutters, forehead finding Jumin's shoulder in defeat. He smells like a combination of cologne and cedar wood, and it's oddly comforting. "Why aren't you more drunk," he slurs and can't help how bitter he sounds because he is.

"Because I have self-control—unlike some."

That jab feels particularly barbing, or maybe he's just more sensitive tonight. Either way, his indignation flares, spurred on by alcohol, and he's ready to shove away yet again with an equally spiteful comment when he feels fingers against his cheek.

"Huh?" he reacts dumbly, eyebrows furrowing. It takes him way too long to realize what Jumin is doing. By then his chin is already nestled in the other's palm. Jumin's skin is predictably smooth and soft, evidence of a pampered life. His own are rough and calloused, but the animosity he would normally feel at the thought isn't there. Instead, he almost pushes further into the touch before he catches himself.

"You're blushing."

"I-I'm _not_ ," he hurriedly denies, and he doesn't have to look up to know the bastard is smirking. "It's—It's Asian glow, jackass."  
  
"It's cute."

Cute? Zen's addled head can't process the thought. Did Jumin Han just call him cute? Not even handsome, which is true, but _cute_? Maybe he's not the only one plastered after all. Before he can make that observation or laugh it off, there are lips on his and a coaxing hand against the back of his neck.

Zen chokes, and Jumin takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into his mouth. Rather than recoiling like he wants to, like his rationality is telling at him to, he relaxes instead. The tension in his body unwinds, and he finds his own hands scrabbling for purchase in Jumin's vest. He goes heady in just a few seconds, intoxicated blood and hormones rushing to his brain. Now it's not just Asian glow making his face beet red.

Jumin is unrelenting. His kisses are harsh and deep and taste like the dark red wine he's been drinking all evening. Zen can't think of anything; he can hardly breathe. Some dim part of him registers the stray hand sneaking under his shirt and mapping out the lines of his muscles. It's embarrassing, but caught up in how good it feels, Zen doesn't question it. He doesn't question it until a low moan shocks him out of his stupor.

Holy shit. That's _his_ voice, and this is _Jumin fucking Han_.

He grabs fistfuls of Jumin's clothes and yanks. They disconnect, trail of saliva inelegantly following before it breaks. Jumin's grey eyes bore in him, and Zen can feel the heavy breaths he's taking. He doesn't know whether it's shock or chagrin, but he can't return the gaze. He ducks his head at the same time that he's suddenly furious. This has to be Jumin messing with him again. The worst part of it is that he fell for it. He always does. Jumin's provocations never fail to get to him, but this is a little different. He ignores his stomach turning somersaults and raises his wrist against his lips once more. They're wet and swollen, Jumin's heat lingering. He tells himself it's another symptom of his allergy and wrenches aside.

"Gotta go," he croaks and stumbles over to the exit. Jumin doesn't try to stop him. Somehow he figures out the complex latch system and throws himself outside, pulling the door shut behind him. He doesn't give himself the time to think about it because if he does he might start freaking out. As he feels along the wall toward the elevator, he just hopes Jumin's not so much of an ass he doesn't call the driver.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jumin messes with zen

It’s his phone that wakes him up. _His_ , not Jumin’s.

Zen’s hand shoots out to close around it, but as soon as it stops vibrating, he finds himself slipping into fitful half-sleep again. He’s too awake to really sleep, though, too aware of the light seeping through the crevices of the curtain, too aware of the grotesque aftertaste of beer and vomit in his mouth.

(—and the barest hint of wine.)

If he stays in bed, maybe he can convince himself everything was just a dream…

He holds onto that hope for all of two seconds before the next text and a combination of guilt and restlessness finally rouse him. He cracks open an eye, groans at the pain that shoots through his temple, and lifts his hand high enough to see the screen of his phone.

It lights up for a moment. Jaehee’s name flashes across. He’s happy for the attention—

_Mr. Han informed me about what happened last night…_

—until he sees what she wrote. His thoughts grind to an immediate halt. _Last night_. Zen groans and shifts onto his side, arms circling his pillow at the same time that he’s burrowing his face into it. His memories are fuzzy. There’s a good two or three hours of blankness between when he showed up at Jumin’s door and when he stumbled out, but it’s not the _lack_ of memories that bug him. It’s the nightmarish few struggling to the surface of his mind that do, the ones that seem too fake to be real and too real to be fake.

(A palm against his cheek. Soft lips.)

“What the hell…” Zen growls, grimace distorting his expression momentarily. The action goes straight to his head, and he winces in pain. Fuck… His first thoughts of the day are about Jumin Han…

Amidst the flurry of emotions, he latches onto indignation and ignores the rest. Pounding in his head aside, his ears are suddenly warm, and the jackrabbit beat of his heart is making it hard to think. His fingers stutter across the keyboard several times. He gets out a halfhearted reply and receives another one instantly.

_Please take care of yourself, Zen. Your health is the most important. Get some rest. Don’t forget to eat._

A breath of laughter escapes his lips despite himself. He vaguely wonders if this is what his mom would be saying if he still had one. Rather than dwell on that sobering thought, he types out an acquiescent response and is just about to hit send when yet another text comes in.

_Oh, can you come by the office today?_

His heart jumps into his throat and lodges there. It looks like his plan to avoid Mr. Trust Fund Kid for the rest of his life has just been shot to hell. He can’t help growling slightly as he quickly erases his previous message and replaces it with a simple _why?_

Zen then proceeds to bury his face into his free hand. It’s burning. There’s also an odd fluttering in his stomach, but he squashes that down and shakes his head free of Jumin’s heated glare, the sensation of slender fingers down the back of his neck…

_God_ , what the hell is wrong with him.

He swings his legs over the bed. Maybe the best solution is just to stop _thinking_ about it. Zen totters into a standing position, resolve wavering as soon as vertigo overtakes him. The buzzing of his phone pulls him back. His fingers grope along the sheets until they find the slick, black device again.

_Mr. Han wanted me to return your jacket, but I won’t be able to leave my work today, so…_

Oh. His jacket. He must have left it behind. Typical Jumin Han, having his subordinates run all of his errands for him. Zen snorts and begins tugging his dirty shirt over his head.

_I’ll be there._

* * *

Zen doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, but this is the first time he’s meeting Jumin with something besides apathy or irritation. He’s almost… expectant, and he kind of hates himself for it.

The best case scenario would be if neither of them remembers. _Unfortunately_ , since he does, the next best case scenario would be for Jumin not to remember. He doesn’t know why Jumin pulled the stunt that he did, but Zen is the gracious type of soul who would chalk it all up to drunkenness and leave it at that if the other wants. He wouldn’t even tease him about it. He wouldn’t even bring it up as fodder for the gay rumor. He wouldn’t talk about it ever again partly because it’d reflect just as badly on himself. But the other half of him thinks Jumin is the kind of bastard who did it on purpose and will somehow use it against him. (Zen hadn’t rejected him after all. He _hadn’t_ , and that kills him, but he doesn’t want to think about it; he doesn’t want to think about it or what it could possibly mean.)

Zen gives a quick wave to Jaehee as she disappears after directing him toward Jumin’s office. Her hands are laden with binders and folders, and he’s pretty sure she hasn’t eaten. He doesn’t get the chance to remind her. In the next second, it’s just him, the door, and the very faint murmuring of Jumin’s baritone voice beyond it.

Zen doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ask for permission to enter; he just does. He swallows past the lump in his throat and strides into Jumin’s office like he belongs there.

Like his penthouse, Jumin’s office is all windows. The glare of the sun makes him pause and wince, still sensitive to the light despite the fact his hangover is almost gone. Jumin’s back is to him, but he sees the man briefly cast a curious look over his shoulder. Zen feels some sort of cheap superiority when those dull grey eyes momentarily widen in surprise.

“…Oui,” he continues and glances away again, one arm folded over his chest as the other holds a phone to his ear. “Oui, la semaine prochaine. J'ai hâte de se rencontrer en personne aussi.”

Zen raises an eyebrow at the French and nudges the door shut. Something about being ignored rubs him the wrong way even if he’s technically the one intruding.

“Merci.” Jumin laughs, and Zen startles.

He can’t see the man’s face, but he’s known the prick long enough to be able to distinguish between the genuine laughs and the professional ones. That was definitely a professional one. _Still sounds nice_ , he thinks before he vehemently rejects ever thinking that and drops into one of the expensive leather chairs before the mahogany desk. He throws his dry-cleaned jacket over the other empty one and waits.

“Je lui transmettrai vos salutations. Adieu.” Jumin turns. “Bon week-end.” He ends the call there and takes a seat, but he _still_ doesn’t acknowledge him. The executive shuffles through papers, probably being irritating on purpose, until Zen clears his throat rather loudly.

“I see you’ve gotten your jacket from Assistant Kang.” Jumin lifts his head and suddenly levels him the same calm gaze Zen has become used to. Except a flashback to last night’s events causes Zen’s own eyes to skitter to the side.

“Yeah,” he scoffs and lifts his right foot to rest atop his left knee. He tries to hide the waver in his voice with excess scorn and bravado. “It’s a miracle she found the time with you running her ragged.”

“Assistant Kang is a highly efficient individual. I would compare her to a well-oiled machine.”

Zen scoffs again and folds his arms across his chest.

“…But that is beside the point. Is there a particular reason for the… special visit?” Jumin raises an eyebrow, and suddenly Zen really has to wonder whether he didn’t imagine everything after all.

Like a deer caught in the headlights, he sputters for a split second before settling on, “I-I just—you didn’t have to get it dry-cleaned.” Zen jerks a thumb toward his jacket and frowns.

“I did,” is Jumin’s brusque reply as his eyes return to the sheets scattered across his desk, all very text-heavy and boring looking. He takes out a fountain pen that Zen guesses is just a tad less expensive than the diamond one. “The stench of cheap beer was overwhelming.”

Zen notes the pointed usage of the word “cheap” and bristles, original objective nearly forgotten. “How much,” he demands, straightening as one hand reaches for his wallet.

“Excuse me?” Jumin flicks his gaze upward, interest piqued but obviously not enough to forgo his work entirely.

“How much,” Zen repeats. “For the dry-cleaning. And the bike. Jaehee told me you had my motorcycle brought back to the warehouse, so how much?”

Jumin stays quiet, but Zen can see the faint amusement in his eyes, and _God_ , if that doesn’t piss him off even more.

“I don’t want to owe you anything. I don’t care if it’s a little or a lot. And—” Zen pauses, voice dropping to a grumble. “I know I put you out last night by… showing up like that without warning, so… Like I said, bottom line is I don’t want to be indebted to you. Hurry up and tell me the cost.”

Zen opens his wallet impatiently, fingers skimming the couple of bills he has on hand. A wave of humiliation simultaneously washes over him, like he’s once again conceding to the other. This time, however, he’s not drunk and there’s a piece of furniture separating them. He won’t be making any more stupid mistakes.

“Think of it as an apology.”

“What.” Zen’s head snaps up. For a moment he thinks he heard wrong, but Jumin has finally given him his full attention. He’s leaning back in his chair, hands folded, and looking as serious as ever.

Zen can’t help being skeptical though. “Say again?”

“I was insensitive in the chatroom last night. Think of this as an apology. You don’t owe me anything.”

Zen… didn’t expect that. Sometimes, Jumin’s bluntness and… sincerity catch him off guard. He chokes, remembers a similar scenario involving more tongue, and hurriedly clears his throat. “Oh. Uh—”

“You don’t have to accept it, of course.”

“N-No, I'll—” The frown returns, and Zen cuts off mid-sentence. Wait… what is he doing…? He almost feels _bad_ now, but isn’t Jumin the one who should feel bad?!

“Look, about what happened last night—” He forces the words out before he can regret them and stands up. Maybe towering over the rich brat will give him some sense of control here, but Jumin is unfazed. Zen sets his palms along the edge of Jumin’s desk and leans forward, meeting Jumin with narrowed, red eyes and what he hopes is a very unhappy, rather than flustered, expression.

“Did something happen last night?” Jumin returns, and Zen _swears_ he can hear a smirk in his voice even if he can’t see it. “Besides you making a fool of yourself.”

Zen lets the stab at his pride go lest he get distracted again. “No! Don’t tell me you don’t remember. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Even indirectly alluding to it is making Zen wilt. Jumin has to be messing with him… He’s just trying to prolong his suffering. Jumin tilts his head to the side, like he’s thinking, and his eyes travel to some point beyond Zen. “Ah.” They suddenly jerk back, and Zen almost flinches. “You mean your callous attitude toward Elizabeth 3rd. I forgive you.”

“No! It's—ugh.” Zen staggers away and holds his head with his right hand in defeat. Or in victory? If Jumin doesn’t remember, that’s good for him, but does he _really_ not remember? Zen peeks out between the slits of his fingers to see Jumin looking genuinely confused.

“Are you still hungover?” he asks and shifts in his seat such that he’s hunched over his desk again. It’s a subtle indication that Zen has overstayed his welcome.

“No,” Zen mutters and sighs, grabbing his jacket off the back of the adjacent chair. “No, I-I got over it already.”

His fingers dig into the fabric and plastic harsher than necessary, and he throws it over his shoulder, glaring at Jumin once again who has seemingly lost all interest in him. Zen almost feels… disappointed.

Jumin shakes his head, and a breath of laughter or scorn escapes. “Your body is truly astounding.”

“Dude…” Zen pivots before he can grow red. “Whatever,” he huffs. “Bye.” He stomps to the door without waiting for a reply and makes sure it shuts soundly behind him.

It’s not until Zen’s footsteps are far away that Jumin relaxes. He unwinds into his chair, finishes penning his signature, then allows his left hand to drift toward his lips. The tips of his fingers brush along them and draw up images of a flushed, disoriented, and admittedly cute Zen. He scoffs. A faint smirk slips into his deadpan expression.

So, Zen remembers. He can’t say he accounted for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love jumin messing with zen lmao............ but also thank u for all the kind comments _(:3」∠)_ i haven't been replying bc ive been *stressed* with irl stuff and can't rly think of proper replies lolol but they are so nice bless /prayer hands i don't know if i want this to be an actual multi-chapter thing bc i'm flaky af so this is just gonna stay completed for now lmaooooo i do have 2-3 more ideas i maybe want to write at some point looool but we'll see. also i have no idea when in the timeline this is happening lolol post-Rika, pre-MC???

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry this is so vanilla and boring...... this is a public plea for more people to write spicy juminzen /prayer hands


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